


Last Call

by WindraDeadZed



Series: New World Order [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Banter, Dialogue, Dream Sequence, F/M, I had a lot more banter I wanted to add, Lots of dialogue, Mild Fluff, New Plague mentions, Nick has an affinty of like 25 here, Pre-Relationship, Present Tense, Scattered Thoughts, Some Russian language, Some SS!F/Valentine if you squint, Spoiler for Picking Up the Trail, Third-person, burial, but i hope everybody else enjoys it too, but that will come later, canon-divergence, decomposition, first-person is told from Nora during dreams, for more bonding in the future, non-canon, this is written bascally for myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8214784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindraDeadZed/pseuds/WindraDeadZed
Summary: Kellogg is no more. With more questions left than answers, Nore returns to Sanctuary hills with Nick Valentine in tow to give alms to the dead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little mini-series I'll be concocting, with my own canon-divergence and interesting ideas. I know the writing can be a little spotty ... but I've mainly written this for myself. I just hope others can get some enjoyment out of it. Please be easy on the criticism.
> 
> The story will be in first-person POV for Nora's dreams and present-tense third-person POV for everything else.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry, but I will be discontinuing Denouement. The plot has gotten too complicated and I can't keep up.
> 
> More for this series will be written as I feel the need. It won't die, just keep an eye out.
> 
> OH! And as far as the New Plague goes, I'd suggest you check up on the Fallout wiki for that.

" _Dorogoy_! _Nemnogo kheruvim_! Eez time to vake up!" The voice is soft, melodious ... It drifts into my dreams like a gentle breeze laden with the fragrance of blooming lavender flowers.  
  
I stir. Or try to. The gentle updraft of her voice lacks the strength to wrench open my leaden eyelids. " _Mamochka_ , no schhh ... " My words slip away like my alertness. That quelling black is welcoming me back into the fold. Who am I to refuse? So warm, so cozy ... but now Mom's long fingers are on my shoulder. They clasp lightly, shaking me just enough to rattle the shadows away.  
  
"Eef you sleep all day, you vill miss all zhe best zhings!"

I groan. She draws back her hand to giggle into it. A new aroma flits into the atmosphere. Fresh coffee. Strong. Light cream. No sugar. Rustling papers and a creaking chair signify my father's presence. He's in the kitchen, presumably, reading the paper.

"Tell her if she doesn't wake up soon," his tenor vocals singsong their way down the hall, "then she won't be able to go to the station with me." My heart jumps. Calling his bluff, my eyes refuse admission to the day. But then his voice into a teasing half-whisper. It's brimming with boyish excitement. "Today's our wet down. I guess she doesn't wanna see the new tower ... ?"  
  
"I'm awake!" Snapping into a sitting position, I fling my legs off the bed and go to stand. The rest of me hasn't woken up yet. My feet are numb and give way. The floor is awfully comfortable this time of day. "'Wake, ahm comin' - " Words don't form well when your mouth is mashed against the ground.  
  
Mom is already kneeling beside me. She tugs my cheek - knowing how much I hate that _jeez Mom!_ \- and tells me, " _Dobroye utro_ , sunshine."  
  
Her skin is almost too bright to look at first thing in the morning. She's positively glowing. Anika Irminov ... pale in the hair, paler in the flesh. A stranger looking in would claim her and I to be cut from the same mold up, Doctors always fussed at us because of our complexion - claiming albinism even though we lack the pink pigmented irises. Merely fair-skinned. Delicate. White lilies in the big and thriving city.

Anika is the very definition of beauty. She isn't very tall - an average of only 5'6" - but her chin is narrow, her cheekbones are high, and her neck is long. Limber and lean with just enough paunch to be considered healthy: an oddity, to be sure, considering her exuberant appetite. That's another thing we have in common.

  
I have to blink several times to filter out the amber ambient light that filters in through the partially closed shades. Rolling to my side is easy. Wiping the congealed drool is a daily routine (my pillow is likely soaked). Spots flash before my vision - two bright yellow circles. I have to rub my eyes long and hard before they fade into the morning.  
  
"There's a wet down?" I ask.  
  
"Oh yeah," Dad chuckles. We live in an average apartment complex. Our bedrooms are close enough to the kitchen and living room to distinctly listen in on conversation, but not so cramped to make us feel strangled by the lack of space. "The whole crew's gonna be there. Cambridge, Quincy, Lynn, Somerville, Malden, Braintree, Brockton, Marshfield ... PD'll be there, too. Gotta make sure we get 'em nice and wet." There's devilish intent in his voice. "Southamptom's gonna be totally shut down for a few hours."  
  
I'm not very old - only seven - but I've been around him and his department enough to have a general knowledge of some things. _Some_ things. Everything else - some phrases, lingos, specifics - is complicated, but I'm learning ...  
  
Excitement pushes me to grumbling feet. I worm my way over into the kitchen. Dad is, like I'd thought, reading through the papers. His eyes - bright teal - graze an editorial. There's concern is in his expression. It hides in the shadows of his aging face when I come up to his knee. Dropping the paper with his only available hand (since his other it too preoccupied with the hot mug of coffee), his massive fingers ruffle my platinum blond hair.  
  
"You do daddy a favor, Nora, and I _might_ be able to pull some strings," he coos with a wink. Digits trail down her chin, giving the point of it a squeeze. "Can you drop in on Frank? Daddy's all outta Colombian coffee." I nod eagerly. He smiles. "Atta girl. There's some other things, too. Frank's got 'em ready for you. I'll give you some money. Get yourself a candy bar too, okay?"  
  
A few green bills dangle in front of my face. I reach for them, but Mom pats me on the back. "Ap ap, you need zo _(was up)_ first, leezle one." She may appear fragile, but Anika is strong when she wants to be. I'm steered towards the bathroom and ushered off. " _Idti chistit' zuby_!"  
  
"Aye, _ya sdelayu ikh dovol'no_!"  
  
"Good girl."

I shut the bathroom door behind me. In the midst of scrubbing, muffled murmurs utter hushed words. They halt when I turn off the faucet and continue when I go back to my duties.  
  
By the time I throw on my shoes and head to the front door (armed with a few dollars courtesy of Dad), my parents both wear thinly-veiled masks of quieted fear. They give me kisses, wave me off, and tell me to be careful. The opening door introduces me to the heat of summer. When it closes, their whispers return. Mom and Dad - scared - big words like 'New Plague' and 'quarantine'.  
  
Our apartment is conjoined to several others, all attached to one long hallway that leads to several flights of stairs. We're on the third floor. I leave out the first and the complex's entrance locks automatically behind me.  
  
It's quiet this early in the morning. The only motorists are those going to work. But I'm not the only kid awake.

She's a little smaller than me. Maybe a little younger, I don't know ... Her brown hair is tied back into a ponytail. A little darker toned in the skin - normal, like Dad. She sits on the curb with her pink-bloused back to me. She's wearing a skirt and, as I step towards her, humming a Frank Sinatra tune while idle hands fumble with a rubix cube.  
  
The girl doesn't notice me at first. Mom says its because I walk on the balls of my feet so often. Makes me quieter. I've heard one of Dad's friends call it 'fox walking'. Until I'm right beside her, the unknown child doesn't pay me any mind. She startles when I brush her shoulder - jerks back with wide eyes that immediately soften with acknowledgment.  
  
"Oh," is all she says. And then she's back at her puzzle box.  
  
I'm blinking. She's quiet. Not in the good way. It kind of unnerves me, but it makes me equally determined. "Hi."  
  
Her response is delayed. I'm beginning to think she might not have heard me until she mumbles a, "Hi," back.  
  
I want to sit with her and make conversation, but Dad wants me to pick up some stuff and then we can go to the wet down. There's guilt stabbing my back when I walk away, and when I look back the peculiar little girl is watching me with the wariness of a mouse glancing a cat.  
  
The streets are easy to navigate. Back then, Boston was much safer. A kid could prowl the blocks without the threat of kidnapping or getting caught up in a shootout. Everybody knew everybody else. If somebody stopped their call to holler a 'good morning', there was a good chance it was a neighbor or a friend who knew a friend who knew a ... you get the point.  
  
I've been to the corner store before. Frank greets me with tired eyes and a glowing smile. "Nora! Kiddo! Good morning!"  
  
"Morning, Mister Frank."  
  
"Here for your poppa's order, huh?"  
  
"Yessum."  
  
He's a tiny, tiny man with little, little finger. They smooth out the front of his apron with fervor. "Alrighty kid. Gimme a sec, won'cha? I'll gather it all up for ya."  
  
Frank vanishes into one of the store's many aisles. I look after him and do some perusing of my own. Dad _did_ say I could get candy, after all ... Fancy Lady Snack Cakes and Dandy Boy Apples were all the rage nowadays. I preferred a standard milk chocolate bar myself.  
  
There's newspapers on the rack nearby and I skim the headlines as I browse. ' _New Plague Emerges. Thousands Dead.'_ and ' _Looming Violence? Recent Crime Indicates a New Gang in Downtown Boston'_. Trying to understand the articles was like reading Mom's Russian hardcovers for the first time, before she taught me.  
  
Frank's footsteps are coming closer. I grab the chocolate bar ( _Brackbury, the real milk chocolate with the traditional taste!_ ) and make my way to the front counter. Our exchange is brief. He takes the money and I stuff the change in my pocket.  
  
"Tell your dad to start stocking up on that Colombian brew, okay?" Frank informs me as he hands me the two grocery bags. There's coffee beans in a bag, some milk, and a bag of sunflower seeds. "Dunno how much longer we'll have back stock of it, what with them closing the border down."  
  
"Closing the border down?"  
  
"A lot of people gettin' sick out west, Nora. An' it's spreading. Go ask your poppa. And you stay healthy, okay?" He ruffles my hair, too. A lot of people doing that today.  
  
That girl is still out there on the curb when I return. I stand about five feet away, hesitating. I know she knows I'm there this time. She glances my way every few seconds. Leery. I should bring the groceries inside. Mom and Dad are waiting. My feet move.  
  
Instead I find myself sitting next to her, setting the bags down on my vacant side. "Hi."  
  
"Hi." She's so meek.  
  
I proceed with caution. "I've never see you before."  
  
The girl looks away. Is she afraid? "Mommy says I'm not s'ppose to talk to strangers."  
  
That throws me for a loop. A stranger? Me? I'm a kid. I'm _her age_. And I'm not having it. "I'm Nora. See? I'm not a stranger anymore."  
  
She's quiet. I lean to get a better angle of her face. Her face turns towards me but her eyes are somewhere else.  
  
"What's your name?" I ask gently.  
  
Utter silence. Then, slowly, timidly ... "Jenny."  
  
"Hi Jenny." I survey her. There's a butterfly clip in her ponytail - different shades of yellow. "I like you're hair."  
  
A smile evolves in place of her thinned lips. It's subtle and puny, but it's a start. "Thank you ... Mommy does it for me."  
  
Before I know it, I'm diving into the bag. I don't look away from her. "I've never seen you before," I repeat the question as my fingers lace about the candy bar.  
  
"We just moved." Jenny sets aside the rubix cube and counts on her finger. "Fffffour days ago."  
  
I vaguely remember Mom saying something about new people. Heard her complain about 'yelling' in the same sentence. My young mind tries to make the connection and fails.  
  
"Third floor?"  
  
"Second."  
  
"I'm on the third."  
  
There's a glimmer of recognition in her stormy gray eyes. For the first time I'm noticing the shadows underneath them, and the animal instinct screeches that something feels wrong. "I think I saw _your_ mommy," Jenny utters. "She looks like you. She's really pretty."  
  
I unravel the wrapper, break the chocolate bar, and hand her half. Jenny hesitates, but to say she was gleeful about the offer is an understatement.

Her gaze marvels between me and the chocolate - _Are you really giving this to me for free?_ it seems to say - and she pops it into her mouth with a muffled, "Shfank you."  
  
By this time I'm grinning. Jenny appears to feed off it. Her maw splits to return the gesture and my stomach lurches. I know ... I know that should be melted cocoa staining her white teeth but it's so much redder than it ought to be. Lumpy. Congealed. Hints of zinc and iron tease the olfactories. Inner workings of my mind recoil. A thousand spiders are crawling on my flesh.  
  
Groceries ... I need to bring the groceries back inside.  
  
I gather the bags and stand. Suddenly I'm unable to look at Jenny. My lizard brain is terrified - of what, I don't know, but I have to get out of here as quickly as possible. The door to my Shirley Street apartment complex is a welcoming sight. Or it would be, if the ground wasn't suddenly twisting and weaving. It's like I've been drinking. The pathway stretches. Every lurching step taken takes me farther and farther away.  
  
No longer does the morning sky loom heartily on the horizon, gracing Boston with his monumental allure. Cumulonimbus clouds forged from coal and ash conceal all but a few spots of an atmosphere that's no longer gold-hinted-blue but a deep, almost black shade of scarlet.

"Nora ... "  
  
Ice trickles down my spine.  
  
I am adamant in keeping my neck rigid. It turns against my will, painfully twists until my eyes grow level with Jenny's hunched form. My breath catches.  
  
She's several years older now. Much taller, much more filled in. The outfit is different. Formal. It's torn and old and dirty and I can't make out much more than that it was _supposed_ to be navy blue, and that the badge on her chest is too smeared with dirt for me to make out the name or department she's meant to represent (even though I know. _I know_.)  
  
Jenny's eyes are on me. Storm grays are overshadowed by a thick layer of something pale and milky. Her pupils are but dull shadows of char. Once hearty in coloration, the woman's flesh is a mottled mixture of azure and alabaster. A cavernous pit explores the depth of her right septum, join somewhere in the center of her skull by another tunnel leading from just above her right eye. There's no blood. Not anymore. That fleshy substance has long since dried into dust by now.  
  
My legs are weak and I fall backwards, rump hitting hard concrete that's almost metallic against my fingers. The air is heavy with rust and something acrid and burning like napalm. It chokes me. Fire in my throat. Smoke in my eyes.  
  
Jenny shifts her whole body to face me and begins to crawl. Her bare hands splash wetly against the stone. For every inch she advances, she loses something, A fingernail falls away, then two. Bits of tissue peel easily off her palms, leaving a trail of dark scarlet in their wake. Her mouth is open. Teeth are black. Some vile-smelling ichor pools at the corners of her lips and dribbles slowly down her chin.  
  
Profound horror shifts the concrete into tar, locks my joints with iron spikes. Paralyzed even as Jenny inches closer and closer until her pale, skinned digits curl around my ankle - _she's so cold_ \- and her chilled whisper breath drifts to me mingles with the stench of death, " _You could have saved me_."  
  
"I couldn't - I - I - Jen - " Warm tears are rolling down my cheeks. Jenny clambers sluggishly over me. Her head hovers over mine. I feel her icicle fingers digging into my shoulder. She's lowering her mouth to my neck in a fit of hungry gnashes and I slam shut my eyes, clenching my jaw. " _Prosti_ ... _prosti_ ... "  
  
_"Nora?"_  
  
_______  
  
Rot no longer overflows into her lungs, filling the internal carapace with graveyard stink. The fingers pressed into her shoulder are looser, gentler, _warmer_ but still narrow, hard to the touch. They give her several rough shakes until that nightmarish landscape is swallowed by the darkness behind her eyelids. and even that is disrupted by their fluttering wakefulness.  
  
Dual hollowed circles of glowing topaz are staring down at her. Nick Valentine's gravelly baritone floats to her on a tide of cigarette smoke and soddered steel. "C'mon, kid, yer dreamin'."  
  
Nora must have been holding her breath. It escaped in a rush blast. "Was I?"  
  
"Yea. Must've been havin' a go of it." His scarred lips twist into a sardonic half-smile. "Welcome back to the nuke-ridden land of ghouls, sentient automatons and more raider gangs than you can wave a minigun at."  
  
"I think I'll take this one instead," she groans, one hand over her eyes, and pulls herself into an upright position. Nick is crouched at her side, the snubbed cigarette still pinched between the fingers of his good hand. His opposing, barren appendage languishes back to his side.  
  
"On any other day, I'd question that but ah ... " Nora cracks open her left eye. Nick is pointing to his cheek, penciled eyebrows arching in concern. She trails her fingers down her own face, eventually coming upon slick trails left behind by tears. "You were, uh ... " His gaze is questioning.

Nora isn't sure she wants to answer. "Yeah ... " Instead she smears the dampness away with the back of her hand and tries to make sense of where they are.  
  
On either side of her are solid walls. A computer hums behind her. Despite the worn bedroll underneath her, Nora can still feel the hard floor. There's a doorway ahead to the left, granting just enough visage to make out a countertop, a phone that doesn't work anymore, and a few vehicle recharging stations. The sky sings of daytime. Singing (mutated) birds, ringing gunfire ... Another day in the Commonwealth.  
  
Red Rocket.  
  
Nora frowns. The events of the day elude her. But when her wrist brushes a bandage slapped tight against her right temple, the stinging pain brings with it a rush of cutout memories from a broken cinema reel.  
  
_Fort Hagen.  
  
Nick and her, breaking into the building from the rooftop while tapdancing around turret fire.  
  
Kellogg's voice over loudspeaker. Then face-to-face in a crowded room of 'metal murderbots' (as lovingly coined by Valentine). His declaration that Shaun isn't there, that 'they both know how this is gonna end' just as the bullets start to fly. Swarming synths, Kellogg's disappearing act - weaving in and out of his assembled cannon fodder while taking pot shots, slinking up behind her and Nick to strike.  
  
She remembers the moment Nick went down, his already bad hand sparking the electricity of damaged wires and twisted metal, oil and coolant splaying from somewhere in his chest. Nora had turned her head for just a second - just a second - and the man was on top of her, ramming shrapnel from a busted computer towards her temple.  
  
One lucky shot from Nick's pipe pistol as he hit the floor deflected it. The sharp edge dragged instead along the skin, coming mere centimeters from her eye. And then Kellogg's hands were around her neck, his form flickering into view -_

 _"You made some kinda mistake comin' in here after me, kitten," he was taunting. His breath was foul - fouler than the rancid decay from her dream. "Who'd ya think you were dealin' with? I ain't no amateur. I do this for a living."  
  
Animal instinct overrode the basic human impulse of laying down to die. She managed enough strength to thrust her head upwards, skulls colliding. He'd reeled back, but Nora was after him - gulping deep what she'd been restrained of. A curtain of red descended over her vision and she'd snarled, bloodlust becoming the adrenaline kickstarting her heart into overdrive.  
  
"Maybe you should've done your homework before you **fucked** with my **family**."  
  
_ Nora touches the temple dressing. It feels wet and hot. Nick brushes her hand aside to look at it and cool air brushes the open wound.  
  
"How's it look?"  
  
He drawls in a sharp hiss. "Wretched," Nick admits.  
  
Nora barks a harsh laugh. "Jeeze, Nick. Don't be so optimistic."  
  
"I ain't programmed ta handle snake oil, kiddo."  
  
"Bet you aren't programmed to get kidnapped either."  
  
Nick frowns but there amusement dancing on his wrinkled forehead. "Smart mouth."  
  
"Just making an observation." She shines a mouth full of grinning teeth his way for good measure.  
  
"Yer lucky you didn't lose the eye."  
  
"Says the one who lost his hand."  
  
" _I_ can replace _my_ parts, can you?" The detective _harumphs_ at her lack of an answer and goes to work replacing the bandage. "Like I said before, yer gonna need stitches for that. But _oh no_ ya wanted to go to Sanctuary Hills first."  
  
Nora's voice becomes softer. "On the bright side," she whispers," you'll get to meet the Minutemen."  
  
They exchange a brief look. "Already met the general."  
  
A knife twists in her gut. It's not quite the position she was looking forward to the minute she'd emerged from Vault 111 after 200 years, but Nora was in no position to turn it down. "Well, there's Preston. Oh! And Codsworth."  
  
"The Mister Handy?"  
  
She nods. "Yeah." Nick forages some adhesive to keep the dressing on. Nora mewls in discomfort. " _Shhhiiii_ \- he's family. You''d like him."  
  
Their words depress into silence. They both know the real reason Nora wanted to come back to Sanctuary, and it had nothing to do with the Minutemen or settlements. Not much to do with Codsworth either, although he played a part and deserved to know.  
  
Nick wipes away the blood from his fingers and leans back. Flame licks from his gold-plated lighter. Smoke rolls thick into the room. "You were talkin' tongues in your sleep," he casually informs her.  
  
Nora eyes the burning cherry clenched between his digits, a newfound itch making her mouth dry. She shakes the temptation away - _never smoke before, not gonna start now_ \- and focuses on the conversation. "Did I?"  
  
"Russian?" his interest is piqued.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Are you ... ?"  
  
" _Part_." She fidgets away from the bedroll to lean against the opposite wall. They're facing each other now. "Mom immigrated with her family when she was still a child. Couldn't pronounce her t's or w's."  
  
"Good thing she got in when she did," Nick muses through pursed lips. "What with 'em shutting everything down because of that plague."  
  
It feels strangely nostalgic to be talking to somebody from the same time period as her. "You remember that, huh?"  
  
"I ... " She's not prepared for the reaction - how distant his gaze seems to get (his eyes dim a little), how suddenly he can't look at her, how his fingers tighten on the cigarette. "Yeah, yeah I do."  
  
It's her turn to be worried. "You okay there, Nick?"  
  
He rolls away from the pressing question. "Must've been twelve, I think. Yeah, that'd be ... "  
  
Nick trails off and Nora decides not to push the issue further. Clearly she isn't the only one with baggage. Background noises carry on in the absence of words. Somewhere outside, Sturges is tinkering with a pump. His tools clang together and every so often he cuts loose a tirade of frustrated curses.  
  
Nora goes back to watching the detective smoke. It takes her a long while to remember the one inhaling isn't actually human at all. "Nick?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Do you have lungs?" The floodgates of curiosity are opening. Nora can only hold back the torrent for so much longer.  
  
He flicks the cherry. Ashes scatter. "I do, but they don't function like a human's does. No oxygen exchange or nuthin'. More fer show than anythin' else."  
  
The dam ruptures. Nora's had shoots into the air. She feels like a classroom student. "So why do you smoke? I mean, do you have some kind of way to absorb nicotine if you don't have blood? Follow-up question: what happens if you try to eat? Or drink? Can you swim or do you sink to the bottom? Do you - "  
  
Nick chuckles through his next cigarette pull. "Christ kid, do you want me to just draw ya a diagram? Synth Anatomy 101?"  
  
It spills out of her mouth before she can stem it. Eyebrows raised and shit-eating grin returning, Nora teases, "What, like a Nick Valentine pin-up?"  
  
Even left field couldn't see that one coming. The words hit Nick with such surprise that he sputters the butt and laughs. " _Wow_ , kid," he manages to spit out. "That's just - I don't even - _wow_."  
  
Nora can't help but run with it. "This month in Tesla Science - "  
  
"Special edition," he barks. "Thirty bucks a copy."  
  
His amusement is contagious. Nora laughs alongside him until her sides hurt, only to burst into chortles again when the detective disdainfully picks up the cigarette he spit out with sorrowful disdain and grieves, "Made me waste a smoke, kid."  
  
"You should stop calling me kid," the half-Russian tells him as the humor tapers off. "You and I are easily the same age. Probably."  
  
There's the glimmer of _something_ behind his expression. It vanished before Nora can mention it. "Fair enough, s'ppose you are."  
  
Daylight will wane soon. Orange flecks of light appear just over the horizon. If they don't move soon.  
  
Nick stands. He offers a human-like hand. It's the only friendly thing Nora sees in the looming mire. "You ready?"  
  
She swallows around the lump in her throat, lacing fingers around his and pulling herself up. "Now or never," she mutters.  
  
"Nora? What does ... ," he rolls the word in his mouth and it comes out awkwardly, " _prosti_ mean? You said it while you slept."  
  
Nora closes her eyes. "'I'm sorry'."  
  
_______

  
Dogmeat meets them halfway to Sanctuary, all wagging tail and drooping tongue.  
  
The short walk back forces Nora to remember the little pains endured during the Fort Hagen fiasco. She favors her right leg a little more than she should, the left knee sparking pain when she bends it too much. Her head is throbbing. It's only by Codsworth's (then Nick's) insistence that she chugs down purified water. They want her to eat, too, but her stomach is still in knots for what's to come.  
  
Preston is leery about the robotic man until Nora introduces him as a friend and an all-around good guy (which, surprisingly, flustered the detective). Their meet-and-greet is short and cordial. Nora cannot resist seeking Mama Murphy to inform her that the bright, bright heart was a literal neon sign.  
  
"Not quite what I expected, kid, but I'm glad you found what you were lookin' for. Now, how about you find me some psycho, and I'll see where the Sight brings you next?"  
  
It might be time to talk to Preston about getting her to quit the chems.  
  
When Codsworth inquires about Shaun's whereabouts, Nora finds her mouth is dry and her words fall short. The Mister Handy is smarter than one might assume. His metallic limbs droop sadly, the programmed voice heavy with sorrow. "Oh, mum ... I'm so sorry ... "  
  
"The case is still open, Codsworth," Nick interrupts. She doesn't even hear him slide behind her, but she's suddenly grateful for the reassuring pat on the back and the overwhelming confidence in his voice. "Just need to dig a little deeper. But we're still going to find your boy."  
  
"That is _so good_ to hear, sir!" chirps Codsworth, faith instantaneously restored. "I do so _miss_ the gaggle of a full household. I will be thrilled to see young Shaun again!"  
  
The pit in Nora's chest grows deeper. "Codsworth?"  
  
"Mum?"  
  
"Could you meet us on the path to Vault 111 in a bit? Say, in about an hour?"  
  
Nick's smile flickers out of view. He pulls away from them for their own privacy.  
  
"Of course, mum! But for what reason?"  
  
Nora's larynx tightens. Lead lines her abdominal cavity. "We're going to bury Nate."  
  
_______  
  
Mama Murphy distracts Dogmeat with treats until Nick and Nora leave the scene.  
  
They hike the trail in silence, the sole survivor leading the way. She hesitates first at the multiple skeletons ("There were my neighbors. Once.") and then at the elevator. Nick doesn't press her. He only waits in silence until she gets the courage to work the entrance mechanism that sets them descending into the bowels of a technological hell.  
  
It's too quiet. Their every footstep reverberates through the metal tomb. Not a breath. Not a voice. If you listen closely, you can hear the scurry of radroaches making their way in through some unknown crack in the wall.  
  
They detour through the cafeteria. Nora roots through the first-aid kit for a blue jar of some greenish salve of menthol and eucalyptus. She smears some on her upper lip (as her eyes water in protest) and tosses it to Nick. Familiarity displays on his features - something somber and even a little reluctant - but he does so without complaint. The odor will mask what follows.  
  
It's been two weeks since Nora left the Vault to embrace the world left behind by the bombs. Two weeks since Nate's corpse, along with everybody else's from Sanctuary, were left to thaw and sit in neglect. Two weeks of nature's course. Two weeks of decomposition. The sour, sickly stench of rotten meat and sour milk slams them like a brick wall. Nora is not the only one to recoil and gag. The menthol does well to mask the harshest aromas, but some still slips through. Her nostrils are on fire.  
  
Nora tries hard to keep er eyes down the pathway. Each cryo pod's window is covered in some kind of disgusting brown residue. The floor here is clear, thankfully - those airlocked doors were enough to keep the radroaches away. But then there's the pool of bodily fluids in front of Nate's pod and she turns her head and holycrapthatwassoclosetobeingher -

\- _and maybe it should have been_ -  
  
She can't hold it in. Nora flings herself into the space between pods and vomits watery bile.  
  
Nick meets her gaze with a tight-mouthed grimace when she returns. "I'm so sorry," he says softly, and Nora believes him. There's something there. Some kind of understanding she can't quite grasp. Well ... of course ... he's a detective. He's probably seen this kind of thing countless times.  
  
Several heartbeats pass before Nora can look at what remained of her husband. He's but a shadow of his former self. The vault jumpsuit is tight around his bloated form, the fabric at his feet is damp and crusty. Once semi-tan in hue, his flesh is now brown and yellow and black and _fragile_. Gone are his eyes. The lids are swollen shut. A singular bullet left the circular imprint in the dead center of his head, and from the angle he's at Nora can see the explosive exit wound that leaves the back of his skull a disfigured mess of mottled hair and rotting tissue.  
  
_Jenny's lips moving, moaning, her body crawling. "You could have saved me."  
  
Kellogg on the ground. Dazed then dead. Nora emptying round after round into his skull and body until the chamber clicks empty, empty, empty, EMPTY and Nick slowly lowers her hand and removes the gun from her squeezing fingers._  
  
Nick doesn't speak. Neither does Nora - not until she feels she must voice the obvious. "We need a - " Her voice breaks. Her chest is tight. She swallows repeatedly. "A - a sheet or ... we try and carry him like this and ... and he'll ... "  
  
_Explode? Fall apart?_ Each scenario leaves her feeling sicker. This is _her_ husband. _Her_ Nate.  
  
They split up to search. The empty gazes of a dozen lifeless corpses herald their every footfall. Shivers are constantly flowing up her spine and she can tell it bothers Nick just as much.  
  
Once they do find what they're looking for, it's a matter of both coordination and making their wills cast iron. They have to grasp him by the suit, which threatens to tear with every movement. By some miracle they manage to settle him onto the sheet (once white, soon to be stained brown) without incident and roll it tightly around him. Then it's a scurry to the elevator. They can't get out quickly enough.  
  
Codsworth is waiting for them on the hill. He's somehow been able to maneuver a shovel in his claw arm. The empty hole is messy and not at all even, but it's deep enough and big enough for Nate's body to lay flat. Nora tries several times to pick up the shovel, but she's shaking so badly that each time it clatters back to the earth. Nick finally takes the mantle.  
  
For each mound of dirt laid upon Nate's carcass, Nora's heart sinks lower and Codsworth's weeps grow louder. Nick manages about ten lumps of soil before a determined Nora touches his hand. His grip loosens. She grasps the tool and finishes the job.  
  
Once the hole is concealed, they stand at attention. Nora can't cry. Lord knows she wants to, but the resource is dried up. She'd sobbed the reserves the day she awoke in Vault 111 to find her husband dead, her baby missing, and the world a ruined shadow of what it once was. Codsworth's moaning breaks her heart further. She consoles the jet-propelled butler by pulling him, somehow, into a hug. It's uncomfortable and a little strange, but Codsworth takes comfort in it and quiets.  
  
The sun is setting by the time Codsworth returns to Sanctuary. Nick starts to follow. He hesitates when he realizes Nora isn't behind him. "Are you coming?"  
  
She sits at the grave's edge. Legs crossed, arms folded, staring numbly. She twists the wedding band on her finger. Vibrant oranges and violets are losing the war to blackened indigo overhead. Soon a carpet of stars will envelope them, and night will fall.  
  
"I think I'll stay here," Her voice is dangerously monotone.  
  
Nick watches for a moment. His yellow eyes are growing brighter in the dark and they stare, unblinking. When he finally turns his back and saunters off, Nora feels the abyss of loneliness and lowers her chin to his chest. She wants so badly to descend into nothing.  
  
Thirteeen minutes later, it becomes clear Nick's not going to let her.

She hears his footsteps again. By this time the twilight is settling in and Nora can see only his silhouette against the darkening background. Bundled in his arms are bits of wood in different sizes. Nick slips behind her. She cranes her neck to watch him build a campfire, setting it alight with the flick of his lighter.  
  
He's got other things, too. From his trench coat pockets, Nick removes what looks like a foil wrapper. There's a few spare dressings and a stimpack as well.  
  
"Managed to barter Carla for some mirelurk jerky. She makes that stuff herself for the road, did you know?" He's talking to her whether she wants him to or not. Nora slowly pivots herself to face him. "Probably tastes like tar, but somethin's better than nothin'. You haven't eaten for two days. I watched."  
  
"Nick - "  
  
"Codsworth talked to Garvey. They'll leave you alone tonight, but they're really concerned. They're a friendly bunch, really. They all speak really highly of you." Her tired eyes catch the flash of smile on his face. "Sturges swung back, too. I've got a free tune-up to look forward to. And ... " He glances at her, frowns, and strips off his coat to rest it on her shoulders. His white dress-shirt has bullet holes singing the side of his abdomen, and oil is slicked against the fabric. A leather holster designed specifically for detectives is draped over and under his arms. Nora thought he only carried one pistol. She didn't know he had a secondary revolver. "You'll catch your death of a cold out here with winter setting in. It doesn't snow like it used to, but the wind still nips pretty hard. And your vault suit's seen better days."  
  
Nora doesn't even realize she's been shivering. Too much of her is exposed through rips and tears in the bright blue and yellow outfit. Reluctantly, she snuggles herself into the coat. "Nick ... " She wants to protest, kick him out for wanting to babysit her ... but truthfully, his presence is needed. _Wanted_ , even.  
  
Once the fire is good and going, Nick sits beside her and hands her the foil-wrapped jerky. Their shoulders touch. And then he's watching her, eyes half-lidded, voice soft and sincere.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Nora blinks.  
  
"For the things you'll never see. The things you'll never do. Nobody should ever have to go through what you've gone through." There's a warmth settling between her ribs - not rage nor sorrow, but comfort. "But there's this. This life. And you are _cared for_. Chin up. I know the night just got darker, but it won't last forever. We'll find your son."  
  
Nora's eyes burn. Her smile is wobbly at first, but it forges it's way through. "The woods are lovely," she begins, voice hoarse, "dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."  
  
Nick's surprise transforms into pleasant regard. "Robert Frost. I never knew you were a reader."  
  
"There's a lot you don't know, Nick." Fingers play with the frayed edges of the worn foil. Her stomach betrays her decision to stave off hunger by growling furiously.  
  
Nick is smoking again. Nora watches him and, finally, makes a 'give it here' gesture. "I thought you don't smoke?" he muses as she fumbles with the cigarette, trying to get the placement right.  
  
"I don't." And she pulls on the butt. Smoke swirls into her lungs, which riot in return. Through the haggard coughing, Nora manages to hand the lit stick back to Nick, who laughs at her condition. " _Jesus_."  
  
"Nasty habit, this," he jeers, the smooth draw he takes almost taunting her. His fleshy hand slaps her on the back a few times until her coughing nulls. "It'll kill ya."  
  
"If the wasteland doesn't do it first." Nora catches her breath. She's flexing her fingers at him in no time. "Give it here, lemme try it again."  
  
They sit like that for a long while, just passing cigarettes between them and taking drags. It takes a good hour before Nora can finally stomach the notion of eating and her body thanks her for it by providing a rush of warm blood to her face.  
  
"What were you?" Nick asks after some time passes. "Before all this?"  
  
Nora attempts a smoke ring. It comes out a mangles mess of ash. "I thought you were a detective. Can't you figure it out?" He studies her, appears to draw a conclusion and, before he can speak it, she cuts him off with, "Before you guess, I was _not_ a cop."  
  
"Well _that_ really narrows down the job pool, doesn't it?" he chides. Metal fingers support his chin. He is the shadow of concentration. "Let's see ... you're impatient."  
  
_Kellogg's door, locked tight. Nick couldn't pick the mechanism. Nora tried and failed, breaking her only bobby pin. Rather than bargain with the mayor for a key, she finagled the door in her own way: by kicking it open. Nick wasn't necessarily happy about that but he'd stared, slack-jawed, and ushered her inside before anybody could see them._  
  
"And resourceful."  
  
_Kellogg vanishing again. Would he never run out of stealth boys? She pulled herself off the wall he'd thrown her into, wandering fingers finding an old fire extinguisher well past its expiration date. Her mind became a whirl of ideas and ... it probably wouldn't work but ..._

 _Sodium bicarbonate flooded the room. All but Nick and the synths choked on it. They resumed fighting across the room. But Kellogg ... his form was covered in the substance. She watched him move, still under the illusion that he was invisible, and smashed him over the head with the aluminum canister before he could get away.  
   
_His fingers snap. "Medical examiner."  
   
"Nope," she denies with a vehement shake of the old cranium. "What led you to that conclusion?"  
  
"The menthol." His finger strokes his upper lip. Some of the salve lingers on both their faces, but the scent was dissipating. "It's common procedure for coroners."  
  
"I've been around my share of bodies back then, but I don't think I could stomach working around them 24/7," she informs him with a shudder.  
  
"So what were you?"  
  
And she wants to tell him, she really does ... But there's the dilemma. She knows his name. How could she forget, what with Jenny blurting it out every time she'd gotten on the phone with her? And that revelation was prone to open a can of worms Nora wasn't prepared to handle. Not for her. Not for him. And not right now.  
  
Instead Nora makes grabby hands again. "One more cigarette?"  
  
Nick's disappointed. He lights and passes it. "I hope you're buying the next pack."  
   
"Can't you buy it with the proceeds off them pin-ups?"  
   
"From the royalty," his laughter bubbles, "I'll earn from _zero_ sales, so yeah, _sure_."  
  
Nora is chuckling now. "Mark me down for one, then," she jeers. In the instant she says it, Nora wonders if she's passed into an inappropriate territory. The statement is meant in jest, but the fear of offending Nick upsets her. "We'll get that business of the ground lemme tell you what."  
   
To her relief, he's still chortling, his shoulders still bouncing, his face still beaming. "You're a strange bird, Doll." The term of endearment isn't lost on her. She'll take it over 'kid' any day. His amusement tapers into seriousness, albeit a little lighter than normal. "You should get some sleep. We'll start for Goodneighbor bright n' early, hit the Memory Den to get that cybernetic implant looked at."  
  
And she wants to ... but Nora refutes the offer, instead suggesting that, "Let's go the day after. Tomorrow I ... I wanna get the Minutemen together." At his quizzical gaze, she nods to the hill where Vault 111 roosts. "Those people ... they had families, too. Died unfairly. They don't deserve to be stuck in there like that."  
  
Glowing orbs pitches something like respect. "Proper burials?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He doesn't disagree, not for an instant. "The day after, we'll stop at Diamond City. Gotta brief Ellie. She might think I've been kidnapped again. Might as well hunt for some proper armor for you, too. And Doll?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You, uh ... you did good today. Real good." There was that warmth again. "Made an old synth proud."  
  
She shuts her eyes and leans back, pulling Nick's coat over her as an impromptu blanket. "Thank you for staying, Nick."  
  
He says something, but it's lost to the rolling darkness of dreams without nightmares.

 

 


End file.
